The Second Mrs Darcy
by S. Faith
Summary: A holiday in the Italian countryside brings revelations to light.


**The Second Mrs Darcy**

By S. Faith, © 2007

Words: 6,974

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary: A holiday in the Italian countryside brings revelations to light.

Disclaimer: I own the words but not the characters. Those are all Ms. Fielding's.

Notes: Again, not much can be gleaned from the books and the movies about a peripheral though pivotal character, so I made some educated guesses as well as wild (though logical to me) extrapolations.

Huge thanks to Carly for help with the Italian translations, for the inside info on the area, and as always, for the brainstorming and plotbunnies.

* * *

For a moment, as she came to wakefulness, she forgot where she was. The sun shone brightly around her, making the white sheets glow ethereally. She could, however, hear the voices drifting up from the open window, the cadence of the foreign words lovely and lyrical, and she remembered in an instant. 

Tuscany.

She kicked back the sheets, rose and slipped on a silky robe, striding to the balcony door and sliding it aside. She was met by a refreshing breeze and the sun on her skin as she stepped out onto the balcony. It was a beautiful, beautiful day, the best one she'd seen since arriving at the Tuscan villa. She gazed out across the countryside and took a long, slow, deep breath. It felt good to be away from London, from the onset of autumn and the accompanying grey skies and rain; here the sky was the purest of blues and there were no clouds to be found. The sun played on her face, across her shoulders and she closed her eyes, feeling utterly at peace.

She'd slept very well the night before, had perhaps slept in a little too long, but this place definitely called for indulgence, and she deserved it. She knew she'd long since missed breakfast but would be right on time for lunch.

She showered, combed her hair, and dressed in a lovely, light cotton dress. She smiled at herself in the mirror; to her surprise she did not at all miss the very expensive designer outfits in the closet in her flat back home. Home. Her smile faded a bit, and she shook off the creeping chill of the prospect of going back to her real life: for all the money, perks and prestige, at the end of the day it all boiled down to an empty flat, a cutthroat job, and meaningless relationships. She cleared her throat, tilted her chin up defiantly. She would not allow herself to think of anything but the paradise stretched out before her during her two weeks there. This holiday was a long time in the making and nothing was going to ruin it. She then grabbed her small purse and headed downstairs for the bistro.

On her way downstairs, an older couple smiled and said "_Buongiorno_" to her. She drew her mouth into a smile in return. They looked away, almost embarrassed, and she realised her smile had probably been a little stiffer than intended. She never had been very good at idle pleasantries with people who couldn't do anything for her. It was, she supposed, a blessing and a curse.

She was passing through the main foyer of the villa when a very familiar-sounding voice echoing there made her stop dead in her tracks. Her head jerked to the side to look in the direction of the voices: standing there was the older man she'd gotten used to seeing at the reception desk, as well as a dark-haired, casually-dressed man with his back to her. She allowed a relieved chuckle. She didn't know what she was thinking; it was impossible that he would be here, anyhow.

However, when the latter of the two men then turned his face to look at something to his left, she saw, much to her astonishment, that the impossible was anything but.

She almost fainted from shock. Of all the places in all the world… him, here. It was no figment of her imagination.

A chance meeting like this was the last thing she ever would have expected. Quickly she stepped to the side to feign interest in a piece of statuary near a group of German tourists, pretending she was with them as they inched a little closer.

He was talking to the concierge, and she concentrated very hard on their conversation. What had brought him here to begin with?

"_Non capisco_," said the concierge, looking distressed. "_Cespugli di rose_?"

She caught the word for 'roses', wondered what he could be asking for.

"Um," he said, bringing his fingers to his forehead. "_Petali di rosa_." Rose petals? He looked down, possibly to an English-to-Italian dictionary, judging from the sound of moving pages. "Um…_ sotto al letto_."

The older man looked thoroughly perplexed. "_Perchè non vuole che la sua bella signora veda le rose?"_

A third voice joined theirs, a soft chuckle. "You just asked if you could put rose petals under the bed, and my father doesn't understand why you wouldn't want your beautiful wife to see the roses."

Beautiful _wife_?

She turned and caught a glimpse of the new arrival, a younger man who bore a strong resemblance to the older one, his father. The old man muttered, "_Deve essere un po' matto_," staring worriedly at his customer.

The son laughed. "_Sì, babbo_. Maybe a little bit." He turned back to the villa guest. "Yes, Signor Darcy. I think we can accommodate your request."

The rest of the conversation fuzzed out as she considered what she'd just witnessed, the voice (and the name) she'd just overheard, and wondered if she hadn't gone a little bit crazy herself.

It was Mark, here in Tuscany, willingly on holiday, and actively trying to effect a romantic gesture for his (new?) wife. What strange alternate universe had she just fallen into?

………

Lunch was spent contemplating what she'd witnessed prior to her arrival at the _ristorante_. Unsurprisingly her thoughts were occupied on imagining what his wife looked like: a striking young legal wunderkind? Commodities broker? Something demanding and ambitious, no doubt. He was nearing forty so if he was true to any other man his age—not that he'd ever admit it—she was probably at least ten years his junior. Possibly redheaded but likelier brunette; his tastes had always leaned towards duskier beauties. Her closet would be filled with size six dresses, and she'd of course be well-stacked, front and back; a man of his social status and wealth could easily glean the wheat from the chaff. She'd be as tall as him with her heels on, would have legs that went on for miles, and her ring would put any other woman's to shame.

With a smirk playing on her lips, she had fun for many minutes conjuring the possibilities.

She was just finishing her pasta, swirling the last of her very delicious Chianti when she spied a woman she had not seen before walk up to the hostess' station, muttering something in broken Italian to the hostess about having only just arrived. She was also from back home, judging from her accent. Her curiosity was piqued. _Surely not, _she thought._ But what kind of coincidence would it have to be to have two brand new guests arriving separately at midweek and at about the same time?_

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, she took in the new arrival's features. She was what was commonly referred to as average height, certainly would have been well short of Mark's impressive stature; her dark blonde hair was streaked with lighter shades of gold, all of it pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. She wasn't what could be termed rail-thin under any circumstance, but neither was she overweight; again, she seemed average, with both curves and a generous bustline. She was dressed very casually in cotton trousers and a scoop-necked tee shirt, wearing jelly mules on her bare feet. She had a pleasant smile and a pretty face, although she did look rather fatigued. In the end, there was nothing particularly remarkable about this woman's looks—_except_, she thought with wry amusement, _for being physically polar opposite to _me_ in almost every way possible_—and if not for the chance meeting with Mark at reception, the woman would never have caught her attention. However, the odds that this was the second Mrs Darcy were very good indeed.

She was stunned given her previous imaginings.

"_Io_… um, _io voglio una_… table, table—" The woman snapped her fingers, as if trying to summon the word from thin air. "—um, _tavolo per due_." She held up two fingers, smiling proudly.

The hostess, while clearly amused at the blonde's struggles, allowed her to finish, then asked, "A table for two?"

The blonde flushed pink, smiled again. "Yes, yes. Oh thank God—I couldn't bear to spend the next month struggling like that to talk to all of you here… I mean, I want to learn and practise, but… yes." She stopped to take a breath. "Table for two."

"That's okay," said the young hostess. "Follow me, _per piacere_."

_This is just getting weirder_, thought the woman. Should her theory prove correct, it meant a man who couldn't be persuaded to take even a week's break for their own honeymoon was on holiday for a whole month.

As they approached then passed, she overheard the hostess ask, "Have you been with us before?"

"No, it's our first time here."

"Oh! Are you newly married?"

"Feels like it at times, but no. Anniversary," replied the woman, her smile still obvious in her voice. By then they had gotten to the edge of the courtyard, out of earshot, and onto the veranda overlooking the countryside.

If this was Mark's wife, then reason dictated Mark was sure to follow. This made getting out of the _ristorante_ as soon as possible an imperative. She did not want him to see her here; she was there to relax, not tear open old wounds, and she was certain he was, too. It was a sprawling villa, a gorgeous countryside, and there were many little side tracks to get lost on, so she knew she would not have to leave the villa altogether. The risk of running into Mark did briefly cross her mind, but she was far too curious about this woman to leave, if indeed she was his new wife: she was a woman who had apparently transformed him from the man she had known.

"Ah, Signore," called the hostess' voice as she came bustling out from the veranda area. "So sorry to keep you waiting. I believe I just seated your wife."

"Yes, I think you must have."

Too late—and theory confirmed. How long had he been standing there? She hoped he'd only just arrived.

He continued, "Or she got lost, which is indeed a possibility." And then he chuckled. Chuckled? _Mark?_

She tilted her head down as if to study the remains of her lunch, so that her hair obscured her face. Even if he noticed her, he would never think it could be her—her hair was longer than it had been when they were together, and there was the whole improbability of the situation to consider. It was sufficient cover. He continued out onto the veranda, judging from the sound of his shoes on the stone.

"Signora? Would you like anything else?"

With a start, she looked up to her server. "Oh. No, I'm finished. _Grazie_." She took the cloth from her lap, folded it, and set it beside the plate, slipped on her sunglasses before getting up and leaving.

She decided a nice long walk was in order, decided to go into the village to do some shopping, to get away… and to think.

………

It was early evening as she approached the villa. She'd had a lovely afternoon in the village, picked up a bottle of the local vintage to bring back to England with her and another of the comfortable, locally hand-sewn dresses she'd grown to love in the short time she'd been there. She had a quiet dinner in her own room, and as the setting sun cast a rosy light over both courtyard and countryside alike, she sat at the balcony of her second floor lodgings with a glass of the lovely wine the sommelier had recommended and a lovely melody drifting up from the _ristorante_ below.

It was then she noticed movement in the courtyard. At first all she saw was the strange white shape that, as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she knew to be a man's shirt. Her own darkened room meant she could indulge her curiosity as she was unlikely to be seen. She saw a flash of shining hair, saw the shirt twirl another darker figure into his arms—then heard a woman's laugh.

Dancing. Although the music was lazy, meandering and barely audible, the pair were dancing in the garden below, twirling until they slowed then finally stopped. It was not so dark that she couldn't see they were embracing, then kissing, but it was dark enough to afford a level of privacy and to ease her conscience about keeping her eyes fixed upon them. She smiled, for the atmosphere of the place—uncommonly warm night for September, stars beginning to appear in the indigo sky—lent itself to romance. She was frankly surprised she hadn't seen it happen yet.

It was not until the man's voice drifted up suggesting they call it an early night that she consciously realised who she'd witnessed spontaneously dancing down there among the greenery; she was too familiar with his voice, how well it carried, and she knew that she was not mistaken. The events of the day should have prepared her for the possibility but even still it came as something of a shock to realise there was a world in which Mark Darcy could be persuaded to dance—and kiss—in a public place.

As determined as she'd been not to get herself involved in dredging up the past in any way, she had a feeling her curiosity would get the better of her if she found herself in close quarters with his second wife. She would have to have more information in order to reconcile the man he was with the man he appeared to be now.

………

Circumstances conspired to bring them together sooner than she expected.

It was another exceptionally hot day for this particular time of year, so she had chosen to spend some time by the swimming pool, in the shade where a cool breeze was to be had. With sunhat and sunglasses firmly in place, enjoying a tall glass of iced tea with a book before her, she slowly became aware of someone nearby speaking English; next to the melodious Italian she'd gotten used to hearing, English was almost jarring. She looked up to see Mark's new wife at the next table with a journal and a pen, speaking to a server who was bringing her a slice of cake and a cup of coffee. She was smiling and alternating with "_grazie_" and "thank you" several times as he walked away. She had a generous bite of her cake and a sip of her coffee before pulling out and lighting a cigarette, taking a long drag on it, closing her eyes and sighing with obviously long-denied pleasure. She returned to her notebook and was looking very thoughtful, bringing her pen to her mouth and setting it on her lower lip when her blue eyes suddenly darted up and met squarely with her own. Even though the direction of her own gaze was obscured by the dark lenses, she felt herself flush with the embarrassment of being caught looking. Panic filled her as she wondered how soon until Mark joined her.

It was then that the object of that gaze smiled.

"Hello," said the blonde. "Er, _ciao_."

She felt her mouth form the tight, formal smile reserved for strangers. "_Ciao_."

"Lovely day. Oh," she said suddenly, looking embarrassed. "Do you speak English?"

"Yes, I do."

"Oh, you're British?"

"Yes."

"What a small world!"

_You have no idea_, she thought dryly.

"Here on holiday?" continued Mark's wife.

"Yes. Much-needed solitude from life in—back home," she said, quickly correcting herself. Politely she asked, "Are you here on holiday too?"

"Yes," replied the woman dreamily; it did not seem to register that there were few reasons to be at an Italian villa except for holiday. "It's our first anniversary."

"Congratulations." Jumping at the opening she needed to gauge how long she had before Mark showed up, she asked, "But… why are you down here alone?"

"Oh, Mark—that's my husband—went to Florence to get tickets for a football match with a chap from the villa. He's probably gone for a couple more hours at least. So I'm getting a little writing in." She pointed down to her journal. "Diary. To record our trip." She took a sip of coffee. "He insisted I stay behind. And," she said with a smirk, "with how strongly he insisted I think he might be bringing back a surprise for me."

"That's terribly thoughtful of him," she commented.

"Yes. He's terrific. And to think…" She drifted off again in a happy reverie before returning to the present. "Christ, how rude of me. Why don't you join me? Seems silly to keep talking across two café tables."

She found herself smiling a more honest sort of smile despite herself. This woman was very warm, very open; she probably had a lot of friends back home. "Thank you. That'd be nice." She picked up and relocated her belongings to the next table then took a seat.

"I'm Bridget, by the way." She held out her hand.

Panic filled her again. She had an uncommon first name, and if Mark had told her anything at all about his first wife, the gig would be up. She decided on a slight variation of her first name. "Tammy," she said smoothly, that unforced smile still in place as she took Bridget's hand and shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Tammy," she said. "So how long have you been here?"

"About five days."

"Is every day this fantastic? Every meal as good as this cake?" Bridget lowered her eyes as she had another bite. After swallowing, she continued, saying, "I could never live here. I'd weigh twenty stone in no time flat."

She felt a smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. "So far, every day has been better than the last."

"I'm almost—_almost_—sorry to hear that. At least my hips are." Bridget picked up her dwindling cigarette and took another drag, then looked meaningful at the fag in her hand. "I only have one once in a great while," she said guiltily. "Mark does not approve, and I prefer to let him think I've quit."

_I'll bet he doesn't approve,_ she thought; at least some things hadn't changed.

"So how did you and your husband meet?" Tammy (as she was resolved to think of herself for the foreseeable future) asked in the most nonchalant manner she could manage.

Bridget rolled her eyes, startling her new acquaintance. "Probably the worst first meeting ever between a single man and a single woman," she said. "It was at a party my parents throw every year on New Year's Day. Horrible 'do graced with the presence of lots of family friends—including Mark's parents—and one I'm obliged to go to." Tammy had only heard tales of this yearly party, one that she had convinced Mark never to bring her to, and to discover it was thrown by Bridget's own parents… very small world, indeed. "My mum and her friend Una tried desperately to set us up. Hm. Come to think of it, his mum was in on it too."

Tammy was thankful she wasn't partaking of her iced tea when Bridget told her this, because she surely would have choked on it. Mark's dour-faced, humourless mother, trying to set her son up with a woman so different from him?

"Anyway, this particular year, in order to keep peace in the family, I wear an outfit my mum has picked out for me, and it's beyond awful. We're talking upholstery fabric, I swear. I'm finally introduced to him, only he's wearing the most atrocious jumper I've ever laid eyes on. We commence to have the world's most stilted conversation _ever_. He makes a lame excuse to get away from me as quickly as possible, and I later hear him saying very rude things about me right to his mother." Bridget pulled her chin in, the cigarette between her fingers an effective prop for what she said next, effecting a perfect imitation of Mark's stiffest manner: "'Smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish, dresses like her mother.'"

"Ouch," she replied before she had a chance to stop herself. That was harsh even for the Mark she used to know; then again, she wagered he hadn't been in the best of moods, given the time of year.

"Yeah. It's a wonder we ever spoke again. God, if we had spoken sooner, I might have avoided heartache with…." She drifted off, then laughed the sort of chuckle that told Tammy that time had healed that wound. "Well, I could fill up novels with the details of our relationship that would rival any fiction… but God, I've gone on long enough about myself. What about you? Are you married?"

She figured it was a safe enough answer, as so many marriages ended that way: "Divorced."

Bridget made a sympathetic face. "Oh, I'm sorry."

Tammy smiled bitterly. "Don't be sorry. It was completely my fault. I wasn't faithful, and I paid the price."

"Oh," said Bridget, her eyes shifting down.

"It's all right. Lot of water under the bridge. And, well, I'm pretty sure he's a lot happier now." She picked up her tea, drank the last of it then set it down. She felt it best to leave before she inadvertently said too much. "Well, it was nice to meet you. Hope you enjoy your stay. It's beautiful country out here."

Bridget smiled. "Nice to meet you too. See you around."

As she swept off away from the pool and headed back to her own room, she resolved to take the bus into Firenze the next day to see some of the sights and do some shopping. She'd been meaning to, anyway.

She'd been back in her own room long enough to change into something more appropriate for the approaching evening when she heard a familiar voice squealing a familiar name. She approached the balcony, saw Mark hovering over the table she'd only just vacated, grasping Bridget by the wrist. She still had a cigarette between her fingers but she was smirking in a very challenging way. She transferred the cigarette to her free hand then to the ashtray; she stood up, stood closer to him, then wrested her hand from him, running off and giggling just as his own hand swatted after her backside.

Tammy's mouth hung open in shock.

She watched as he chased her around the patio; when he finally caught up to her, his inertia was such that he couldn't stop quickly enough, or perhaps it was a patch of dampness on the concrete. Either way, the end result was that the both of them ended up, fully dressed, in the pool. A hoot of amusement arose from a small group near the pool as they hit the water.

When he surfaced, he was sputtering for air but—much to her continued surprise—howling with laughter. She appeared beside him, raising her hands to her hair and generally looking horrified, but was also laughing out loud. The old man from concierge came running out to see what the matter was. When he saw the two of them were not only fine but laughing, he cried out, "_Deve essere matta pure lei_!" before heading back indoors and undoubtedly back to his post. The group near the pool tittered at his reference to her being just as crazy as he was.

With their arms around one another—surely not the most efficient way to wade through a pool—they walked slowly towards the edge of the pool; he lifted himself out then helped her out of the pool and to her feet. Smoothing her hair down, he said something quietly to her, and she nodded in reply. He bent and kissed her quickly, then, grinning and dripping water everywhere, led her back to the table to fetch her notebook. As they headed in the direction of the entrance back to the suites on the other side of the villa, she withdrew back into her own suite, contemplating the bizarre nature of the scene she'd just witnessed.

………

During the bus ride, between pages of a book she was destined never to read, Tammy did a lot of thinking. Mostly she did a lot of wondering: if she had herself changed any from that time (she liked to think so), if Mark had found it in his heart to truly forgive her (probably not), or what a conversation between them now might be like (awkward). She knew it had been so cruel and stupid to have sex with another man in her own bedroom under a roof she shared with her husband. Even now she didn't quite understand what had motivated her to do it. It wasn't as though she'd loved that devil, but he had flattered her and charmed her into a false happiness, into intimacy. Had she deep down simply wanted Mark's notice, his attention, as busy a man as he was, as distant as his manner often was? Had she just wanted to see him react emotionally to something… _anything_?

She slapped the book closed, turned away to look out the window and at the landscape floating by. It did no good to dwell on this. What was done was done; the past was the past; a hundred other clichés drifted through her head as she tried to banish thoughts of that long ago December day. She adjusted her sunglasses, saw the density of houses increasing; she knew they were close to the city so she slipped her book back into her oversized handbag.

Once in the city proper, her cares abandoned her as she was suffused by brilliant autumn sunshine, the tangible atmosphere of art and culture in this pivotal Renaissance city. She shopped; she walked; she gazed up at Il Duomo, at the impressive (though replica) David in the Piazza della Signoria, with wonder, awe and humility.

She'd stopped to take a break at a little _caffé_. She ordered an espresso and _cannolo_, and was sitting outside enjoying the sunshine, an uncommonly bright smile on her face, when she heard a nearby voice call a name she never, ever went by:

"Oh my God! Tammy, is that you?"

Her head swiveled to the side to see a blonde woman standing on the sidewalk just a few feet from where she sat. Upon confirmation of her identity, Bridget waved and smiled. "Wow! What a coincidence!"

She smiled as cordially as she could manage, quelling a surge of anxiety. "Hi, Bridget. Coincidence, indeed. Where's your husband?"

"At the match today. Almost like I'm destined not to introduce you to him."

She chuckled despite herself, then found herself asking, "Why don't you join me? You look like you've been busy shopping."

Bridget swept into another seat at the table, setting her brightly-coloured bags on the remaining vacant chair. "Thanks."

A waiter arrived within minutes to take Bridget's order: espresso and any dessert with chocolate that they might have. He bowed slightly at the waist and then went away.

"Have you been enjoying the city?" asked Tammy.

"Ohh, it's amazing. Went through the piazzas and gawked like a moron at the dome…" she said with a smile, lighting a cigarette. "I know I shouldn't…. Plus I got some shopping in, a little surprise for Mark later to thank him for last night…."

"Last night?"

She grinned, steepled her fingers, and rested her chin on them. "He brought me back here to the city—we had a lovely dinner and dancing at De' Castellani, then we had a moonlight stroll in the Piazza della Signoria… just heaven on earth." Bridget was veritably beaming.

Rose petals, dinner, dancing, moonlight strolls…. Her interest was piqued and she could not resist asking: "What kind of surprise did you get for him?"

To her amazement, Bridget blushed as she smirked. "He'll be mortified if he finds out I told anyone, but between us girls… well, I found this lovely little shop called Punto G, and they sell, um… well, here. Have a look." She reached over, grabbed the smaller bag, and handed it to Tammy; Bridget's face was still blazing.

Reluctantly, she peeked inside. There were several identical packages in there, very small, very compactly folded, and very clearly labeled in multiple languages, one of them English: '1 pair edible ladies' underpants, flavour: peach'. Other packages proclaimed other flavours. She closed the bag, felt her own face flush with heat at both the pants and at the thought of Mark making use of them. She was thankful for the bright sunlight's camouflaging her own colour.

"And a sexy little nightie from Happy Apples," continued Bridget in a stage whisper with a grin and a wink, taking the bag back from Tammy and indicating the second bag she carried.

Bridget's espresso and _bignè_ arrived at just that moment, which was something of a relief for Tammy as it saved her from trying to find an appropriate response—or, for that matter, any response at all. Her voice had quite abandoned her. He would once have been scandalised to be in the same room with such a surprise, as sure as the earth was solid beneath her. Now…

"Oh my God," gushed Bridget a few moments after taking a bite of her pastry. "Like I said, twenty stone… how is it that every Italian woman doesn't weigh that much?"

Feeling decidedly more at ease, Tammy smiled.

There was a shrill ringing at that moment, and Bridget fished into her handbag with an embarrassed expression. "Excuse me just a sec. Hello?" she asked after flipping the phone open. "Hi, Mark." She looked up at her coffee companion with a grin. "Yes, I'm fine. Having coffee with a new friend who's staying at the villa too. How's the match?" There was a pause; Tammy could hear Mark's voice through the back of the speaker as he spoke to her. "Oh. Wow, after all this time? Crikey." Another pause, more talking by Mark, as Tammy wondered nervously about what exactly 'after all this time' he could have been referring to. "I haven't forgotten, no." She listened again, smiled, then smacked a kiss into the phone. "I love you too. See you later."

She closed the phone, tucked it back into her bag. "I'm glad _I_ didn't go to the match. After all this time it hasn't even begun yet. Turns out they had to get there that early just to get through security and to their seats."

"Never cared much for the game, myself," she thought, relieved; her thoughts turned quickly to Mark's habit of putting on the telly only to watch a football match. Without thinking she began, "Does he still—"

_Shit_, she thought, stopping suddenly.

"What?" asked Bridget, furrowing her brows.

"—still support the same teams he did as a boy?" she said smoothly.

"You know, I never even asked. I know he's a big supporter of Newcastle United."

"Ah."

Bridget finished her espresso, licking the remnants of chocolate from her fingertips from the _bignè_. "Say, I'm about to head over to a small gallery. I told my friend Tom this morning when he called that I was in Florence—er, Firenze," she said with a grin, "and he told me he had a friend with a show here, made me promise to check it out. If you don't have any other plans, do you want to come with me?"

She found herself agreeing. Why not? She didn't have anything better to do; Bridget was a very friendly, easy-to-talk-to person, though she would have to keep a better rein on her mouth lest she give the game away. They paid their bills then asked for directions to the little gallery.

………

Thank God for outstanding dinner dates.

Tammy was having supper in her room again, out on the balcony, watching the dusky sky and enjoying the cool evening breeze, contemplating her enlightening day.

The gallery show had been a surprisingly fun lark. Bridget's friend's friend was one of those modern artists whose belief in proclaiming the profound superceded any need for actual technical expertise or artistic talent. Laughing privately to each other like schoolgirls they'd verbally savaged the works until at last they were urged to leave by the harsh, watchful eye of the gallery curator.

They had also done a little window shopping as they'd headed back towards the Piazza della Signoria; they had surprisingly similar tastes in fashion, though Bridget complained about being too fat to pull most designer fashions off. "It's true," she'd lamented; "As I've said many a time, I have a bottom the size of two bowling balls. And let's not get into these," she'd added, directing her thumb towards her own breasts.

"Bridget, there are women who pay good money for a pair like those," she'd replied, immediately turning crimson. In retrospect she thought there was little wonder Mark had taken to dancing in the moonlight and sprinkling rose petals hither and yon. It seemed to be contagious.

Bridget had apologised that she couldn't offer her a ride back to the villa with them in their rental car because she and Mark had already arranged for another romantic evening in the city, and for that, Tammy was thankful; otherwise, she would have had to come up with a sufficient reason not to accept a ride back, and would have had some uncomfortable explaining to do regarding why Mark was about to drive his ex-wife back to a villa he was vacationing at with his current one.

After repeatedly dodging Bridget's question pertaining to her room number, Tammy and Bridget went their separate ways; Tammy to the bus station, and Bridget to her rendezvous with Mark.

She'd had one of the most fun days she'd had in ages with one of the genuinely nicest, most down-to-earth people she'd met in a long time, one she really liked, and one who just happened to be married to her ex. _No difficulties there_, she thought sarcastically, then sighed.

The reason they were such a good match, Tammy realised, was because Bridget was Mark's opposite in every way conceivable. She would speak when he was silent; he would plan while she would wing it; she would drag him into a dance when he demurred; he would be the voice of reason when her head was climbing in the clouds. Tammy laughed ironically, downing another glug of wine. Maybe it wasn't that Mark's mother was a sour old woman at all; maybe it was just that she had never liked Tammy for a daughter-in-law. Looking from the outside in, she didn't think she would have liked herself much for him, either.

She stubbed out her cigarette—she hadn't wanted one for a very long time, but being around Bridget brought back the old craving—and blew out the candle on her patio table. She stood, the breeze lifting her hair from her shoulders and ruffling her dress as she drew the doors closed and prepared for bed.

Curiously, as she laid down for sleep and closed her eyes, she couldn't get the thought of the pants out of her mind, folded in their little packages in the carrier bag. It wasn't as if she were jealous or harbouring sudden fantasies of winning him back, because that was too little, too late. There would however always be a part of her that wondered how things might have been, a part filled with regret for her own stupid actions. She might have instead been the one to get him to dance in a moonlit courtyard, sprinkle rose petals on her bed… or be game for peach panties. She sighed and turned over, praying that maybe she'd have her chance with another man, someday.

………

A few days later, the other shoe had not yet dropped, and in a fatalistic sort of way she was beginning to wish it would. Keeping under the radar was tiresome; wearing the sunglasses and the headscarf while out and about was becoming caricaturish. The grounds of the villa were beginning to become engraved upon her memory and she could have walked the route to the village with her eyes closed.

She had ventured to take lunch in the _ristorante_ once more, was partway through the meal, when she heard a happy voice approaching: "There you are! I was beginning to think you'd left without saying goodbye." She looked up to see the current Mrs Darcy smiling down at her.

"No, I've just been keeping to myself." She darted her eyes around nervously. "Where's your husband?"

"He's gone off to the villa with his mate from the room across the way. Boys," she said with a laugh.

"You're welcome to join me if you like," said Tammy, feeling a bit more at ease.

"Oh, yes! I was actually thinking how lonely a day it was going to be, bouncing around the villa by myself…"

Tammy smiled, and it wasn't her stranger-smile.

Bridget had just settled into a chair and ordered a light lunch when it happened:

The other shoe dropped.

She felt the shadow cover over her, across the table, before she saw the woman across from her look up to him. But he was not looking at his wife; he was looking at his ex-wife.

"What are _you_ doing here?" said Mark in a low, too-calm voice; his face swirled into a dark mask of concealed fury. How well she knew that look. "What are you up to?"

"Wait, Mark—_what?_" Bridget continued looking up at him. "Mark, this is the friend I told you about—"

"_Bridget_," he interrupted in a dangerous voice, looking to her at last, taking an empty seat beside her so not to attract any further attention. "Did she _tell_ you who she is? Did she tell you that you have far more in common than you can possibly imagine? No, of course she didn't. I'm sure you'd've mentioned it." He turned away from Bridget to focus his gaze back on her. "What are you trying to do? Destroy my second marriage too, Tamiko?"

Bridget blinked as the recognition of her name took hold, mouth gaping in a slight O, obviously stunned into silence. Tammy—Tamiko—wagered that it didn't happen very often. She turned her eyes back to Mark, thinking, _Be careful what you wish for_. She felt like she was withering under his piercing gaze; how could she have forgotten how devastating it was? "Of course not."

"And you just so happened to befriend my wife? I find that hard to believe."

"It's a coincidence. I never meant you to know I was here, either of you. It was Bridget who struck up a conversation with me."

"I find that even harder to believe."

"No, it's true," said Bridget, coming out of her haze. "I did."

"Bridget, if you could please stay—"

"I won't stay out of it," said Bridget defiantly even as her face betrayed the conflict she felt: loyalty to her husband, loyalty to new girlfriendhood. Tamiko knew which would win out in the end, but it oddly touched her to know this was causing even a glimmer of strife in her. "How could she have planned anything? She got here before we did!"

"Don't defend her, Bridget."

There was an uneasy silence between husband and wife. She couldn't let the tension continue to build.

When Tamiko spoke her voice was as calm as the skies over the villa, as clear as Lago Trasimeno. "Mark, I saw you the day you arrived at the concierge. I admit I overheard some of the conversation with the old man, was in the restaurant when you both showed up for lunch that same day. I saw the fall into the pool. Everything pointed to you being a very different man than the one I knew. I was very curious… about how you could have ever wanted to marry again, about the woman who changed your mind, changed _you_. The last week has really opened my eyes." Tamiko acknowledged the blonde with a quick look. "I truly didn't mean to cause strife, Mark. I understand if even now you don't forgive me, or don't believe I genuinely like Bridget. It's guess it's enough for me to see you're happy." She rose from her seat, her stomach in a knot, unwanted tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. She felt weak and pathetic. Picking at the scar was exactly what she did not want to happen. "I'm really sorry. I should have just packed my things and gone when I first saw you. You would have never known I was here and you'd still be blissfully unaware. We all would."

With that, she departed the _ristorante_, intent on doing just as she should have from the start.

………

It wasn't until she arrived back at her suite that she allowed the tears forth, falling forward onto the bed and clasping a pillow to her face. She knew it was something that she needed to happen; she hadn't allowed herself to cry when she'd been caught with her lover, hadn't cried moving out of their shared home, hadn't cried signing the final divorce papers.

It didn't mean she didn't hate herself for crying now.

When the tears ran their course, she turned over onto her back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling with swollen, rheumy eyes. She watched as the angle of the sun became more and more oblique and the room darkened around her, listened to the sound of faint voices drifting up from the courtyard and the villa grounds beyond.

She supposed she ought to order dinner before really getting around to packing, even though she wasn't hungry enough to getup off the bed for it. She did, however, crave a bottle of wine, and she happened to have one (as well as a corkscrew leftover from dinner the previous night). It wasn't chilled, and she didn't have a wineglass, but it would do. She pulled out the suitcase, pulled the bottle out from where she'd safely stowed it. She'd need the case soon, anyway.

She was about a third of the way through the bottle and feeling the tears fresh in her eyes again when she heard what sounded very much like a knock at her door. Dinner? She didn't remember actually ordering, but it was pretty good wine. She got up from where she was sitting on the balcony, felt her head swirl a little as she stumbled across the room.

She opened the door, not expecting anything more than one of the hotel staff wheeling a tray of dinner in for her. Certainly not Mark's wife.

"Hi," she said. She looked really tired. "Can I come in?"

"Why are you here?" asked Tamiko wearily, leaning on the door handle. "You should go. Mark will think I'm trying to badmouth him."

"Mark can think what he likes. I wanted to talk to you."

"Fine." Sighing, Tamiko stood aside and let Bridget in, closing the door. "How'd you find my room?"

"The staff are familiar with _la donna giapponese_," Bridget said. "And they'd seen us together. They were happy to point your room out."

She ran her fingers through her dark hair. "So what is it you have to say to the horrible ex-wife?"

For a few minutes, Bridget said nothing. She simply looked at Tamiko as if seeing her for the first time. Finally she said, "The only thing I ever knew about you was that you left Mark for Daniel Cleaver."

She pushed air through her teeth. "It wasn't quite so simple as that."

Tamiko prepared to explain the details, but Bridget just looked down and laughed to herself. "I'm sure it wasn't. That's something else we have in common—Daniel. He cheated on me with an American."

She couldn't have been more surprised if Mark had burst in and announced he was leaving Bridget to have another go with her. "_What?_"

Bridget nodded. "Smaller world than I could have guessed."

Distant bells sounded in Tamiko's head. "Wait. Lara?" she asked.

It was Bridget's turn to look shell-shocked.

Tamiko walked over to where she'd left her bottle of wine, grabbed it around the neck, and said, "I told you it was not as simple as that." She sat in one of the balcony chairs and wordlessly invited Bridget to join her.

With that she had another drink then told Bridget the story.

………

Daniel showed up with a devilish grin and a wrapped present for the two of them, full of news about his American girlfriend whom he hadn't seen for three months. She was lonely and had just opened a bottle of wine, lamenting the fact that she was home alone on Christmas Eve like she had been for the majority of evenings since she'd married her husband.

An hour later, after consuming the better part of that bottle of wine and a casual tender brush across her cheek to tame her dark locks, she was launching herself upon him, fully aware of his reputation in the bedroom; before long they were racing up the stairs, tearing each other's clothes off, each feeling the burden of their loneliness, promising each other no one would ever know, confessing there'd always been a chemistry, an attraction. Honestly, it took very little to convince him. It felt so good to just be physically touching another person, releasing so much pent-up sexual frustration, and she got first-hand experience that his bedroom boasts had not been exaggerated. She'd had such tunnel vision during their extended romp that the appearance of her husband took her completely by surprise—she'd heard no footfalls on the stairs, had no warning that the door was about to swing open…

Mark had come home early to surprise her. He had succeeded.

He didn't stay around long enough for an explanation. He simply stared wordlessly at the pair of them on the floor, then turned around and left. By the time she'd found a robe and raced after him, he was gone; when she returned to Daniel he had his thumbs dug into the corners of his eyes, muttering vulgarities to himself and reaching for his clothes.

She didn't talk to Daniel for a week afterwards. When she did, he confessed he'd told his girlfriend about his lapse in fidelity, and she'd forgiven him. She guessed it was easier to forgive without the visual reality in front of her.

Mark went to spend the holidays with his parents, advising her to be gone by the time he came back on New Year's Day. Shortly after, he listed their shared home with an estate agent.

The rest, as they say, was history.

………

Tamiko stopped speaking. Bridget did not immediately respond. When she did speak, it wasn't exactly what Tamiko was expecting:

"_I_ was the other woman?"

Reluctantly Tamiko nodded.

"Wow," Bridget said, bringing her hand to her forehead. "The whole thing… I never asked him for details. I figured I knew all I needed to know."

Regret washed over Tamiko. Perhaps she had stepped outside her boundaries in giving details Mark had not wanted to share. The look on her face must have said it all, because Bridget continued.

"No, don't feel bad for telling me. I wanted to know. I just… I guess I don't understand."

"What do you mean?"

Bridget had a hard time verbalising what she wanted to say; this was plainly evident on her face. Finally she explained, "How it could have happened. You know. Daniel's smooth but… even when I was split from Mark, I couldn't shag him again."

Ironically, Tamiko found herself smiling. "Mark was not the same man then. So serious all the time, reserved, didn't say much, not at all affectionate, worked insanely long hours… very much like me. We thought that those similarities would make for a good partnership; God knows I thought he was attractive… and he indicated without so many words that he thought the same of me. I felt like my options were narrowing and I could have done much worse than to marry him, a good-looking man of wealth and status. So we got married. I thought that would be enough." She laughed bitterly. "We didn't even have a honeymoon."

Despite her best efforts to conceal it, Bridget obviously considered this little fact distasteful. Tamiko indicated the bottle, offering Bridget some wine. She accepted it, raised it to her lips, took a long swallow, then handed it back.

"Did you love him?" Bridget asked solemnly.

"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "But to be fair, I had a rather limited definition of 'love'. I don't think I really knew what it was, and I'm not sure I still do. My relationships have never been like what you have with Mark, not even the one I had _with_ Mark."

Bridget cracked a smile for a moment before turning serious again. "Did you never talk to him about… things?"

"You say that like that would have been the easiest thing in the world to do. Maybe it is now, with the man he's become… but he was so hard to talk to about emotional matters then. And then afterwards… well, I'm not proud of what I did." She sighed. "Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say."

"You should talk to him now."

She couldn't stifle a laugh at the ridiculous notion of Mark wanting to hear what she had to say. "Oh, he's made it pretty plain he'd like nothing less."

Bridget grabbed the bottle, had another drink. "I'm not saying he's the easiest man to talk to, the easiest man to gauge what he's thinking. I still think you should try."

There was a period of not-entirely-uneasy silence, where the two of them gazed out into the night sky. At long last, Tamiko said, "You've been very good for him."

Bridget turned to look at her; she could see the shift of her pose out of the corner of her eye. "Really?" she asked, her tone incredulous.

Tamiko turned and offered the blonde woman a smile and a nod. "He's obviously very happy with you, and I'm glad for that. I truly am. I hope you know I really wasn't just using you. I liked our talks… I like you."

"I know." She emitted a short, sharp chuckle, covering her face with a hand in mortification. "Oh God, and I showed you the pants…"

She could not help but chuckle, too, as they fell into a more comfortable silence. She felt hugely relieved that Bridget had been willing to sit and listen to her, didn't hate her on sight for merely being The Cruel Ex-Wife; however, it occurred to her that Bridget had been with her in her room, alone, for some time. She wondered where Mark was, what kind of emotional state he was in. "You should go back to him."

Slowly, Bridget nodded, rose from the chair. "I'll let myself out."

There was a knocking at the door, firm and steady. It was immediately obvious to both of them who it was. "Well, I'm already up," said Bridget. "I'll get it."

If she'd been in her room alone she might have ignored the knocking. She didn't even want to look to the door as Bridget opened it, didn't want to see what she knew would be a dark glare in her direction. "Bridget," he said in a low, almost exasperated voice. "I don't know why you came here."

Tamiko turned slowly to face them. There was a strange expression on his face, one not terribly common for him; he looked worried. She knew why. "Never fear. I'm not trying to poison her against you. Have a good life; close the door on your way out."

Bridget stepped forward, took his hands. Softly she said, "It's all right, Mark. We've just been talking, and it's been very enlightening."

His countenance hardened, eyes flashing to Tamiko.

"Not in the way you think," she added quickly. "You never told me the details of the… that fateful day, but I realise now it's because you didn't really have them yourself."

"Bridget, what's past is past."

"But it's unresolved, and you can't leave it that way. You need to talk to her. You need to talk to each other. It's something you should have done at the time."

"Don't you think I'm not acutely aware of that?" he said angrily. "If we'd been more open with each other, it might never—" Suddenly he stopped.

"What, Mark?" asked Bridget.

"Never mind. You meant about… at the time."

"What did you think I meant?"

"It's not important."

"It is or you wouldn't've said it! Say it, but don't say it to me. Say it to her."

She released one of his hands to touch his face gently, their gazes alone speaking a silent language. Bridget nodded almost imperceptibly and squeezed the hand she still had claim on. Slowly Mark turned back to look at his ex-wife, and there was something very different again about his expression: brows drawn slightly together, mouth pulled in a faint frown.

She spoke first, breaking the ice, summoning all the courage she could muster. "I never even got to say 'I'm sorry' to you."

"How long?" he asked.

"What?"

"How long had it been going on? Did it start before we were even married?"

She hadn't considered before that he might have thought she was having a long-term affair with his best mate. "Mark, it was a one-time thing, completely unplanned. He just came over to say Happy Christmas. It hadn't happened before, didn't happen again."

He looked surprised but as always he masked it well. That hadn't changed either.

"I know now I should have just talked to you instead of… venting my frustration in other ways," she added. "We never were good at communicating with each other."

He shifted his eyes down. "I blame myself. Too focused on my work, too distant—I wasn't available to talk to, didn't notice enough of what was going on around me to ask you. I'm sorry for that." He looked to her again. "Just the once?"

As Tamiko nodded to reaffirm that part of the story, she noticed Bridget put her other hand across the back of the hand she held.

"Mark, don't try to shoulder all of the blame. I could have tried harder to let you know how I was feeling."

They looked at one another for many moments without speaking. At last she broke the silence, speaking matter-of-factly:

"We should never have gotten married. We did it for all the wrong reasons."

"I loved you."

She grinned, remembering her words to Bridget about love. "I'm sure you thought you did, just as I was convinced I loved you, but I don't think you can even begin to compare your feelings for me to your feelings for Bridget. I can see it in the way it's changed you. I never did that for you."

He turned to look at Bridget, who offered him a reserved yet loving smile.

Tamiko added, "Like I said before. I'm glad you're happy. Maybe I'll be lucky enough some day to find someone who can change me."

"If tonight is any indication," Mark said, "I think you're on your way without anyone's help." He then offered her something she thought she'd never see directed at herself again: a small and subtle smile played across his lips.

For a moment she wondered if he might thoroughly shock her by giving her a friendly hug, but he didn't. That was all right. She merely smiled in return, feeling much lighter inside.

Suddenly noticing her suitcase pulled out and beside the bed, Mark seemed to remember her earlier statement about leaving the villa. "Ah. Well. Maybe we should go," Mark said. "If you're checking out, you must have a lot to do."

Bridget interjected, "Are you still leaving?"

"I was going to."

"If you're doing it on our account, obviously you don't need to," piped up Bridget. "You've had your talk, things are worked out."

"Mostly," she said, looking to Mark.

"Mostly," he agreed, meeting her gaze. "Though if you do stay, we would appreciate no more… um… clandestine observation."

She swore he was making a slight jest. "I think I can manage that."

"Well." Mark released Bridget's hand, walked to the door, and opened it. Bridget joined him, slipping her hand into his again. "Good night, Tamiko."

He closed the door behind them and the sudden silence was deafening. She felt the tears stinging the corners of her eyes again, this time born of relief. It was good at long last to set that burden aside. She allowed the tears to flow, didn't feel ashamed for crying. She walked to her bed, slipped her hand through the suitcase handle, and put it back into the closet.

………

She had seen Mark and Bridget in passing, had exchanged a friendly wave and nodded her head in acknowledgment, a couple more times during her remaining days at the villa. When Mark went into Firenze once more with his mate from across the hall, she and Bridget had lunch together one last time. She didn't expect that they would become best friends forever, didn't expect she'd become a fixture in their lives, but she felt much better for the resolution. Before heading for the airport on her final day, she left a note for the two of them with the concierge. She never had learned which room was theirs, and she didn't want to know now.

The prospect of returning to London suddenly didn't seem all that daunting. In fact, she seemed revitalized by the notion of reinventing herself into the kind of person she'd always wanted to be. She had, after all, always liked a challenge.

_The end._


End file.
